Persuasion Too
by lowri
Summary: Connor MacLeod and Captain Frederick Wentworth meet at a pub and talk about lost loves. Connor, after hearing about Anne, persuades Wentworth to try again.


PERSUASION TOO

Disclaimer: Connor and Duncan MacLeod and Sarah Barrington belong to Rysher and Panzer/Davis. We just borrowed them for a short while. We'd like to take the time right now to thank our beta readers. Joanne Madge aka. Jojo the destroyer..hehehe..We love her. Maxine Mayer, Patti Aha (our Austen canonizer), and Lisa Hughes. Now, the other characters belong to Jane Austen. This story is a preface to the book Persuasion. We believe that as Anne Elliot was persuaded by Lady Russell to refuse Frederick Wentworth, Connor MacLeod persuaded the Captain to return and try again. We in no way want to rewrite a Jane Austen masterpiece, but, to show how the Highlander characters have had a major influence in other, mortal lives. Immortals have such a wealth of knowledge and experience that sometimes they feel compelled to share some of it to those lucky few. We have captured such an occurrence here. Hope you enjoy it.

**Persuasion Too**

by Lori Wright & Sheri A. Fulton aka. Highlandlass

****

England 1814

Connor MacLeod walked along the gangplank, heading for shore. His ship was seaworthy once again. He longed to be once more, out, upon the waves. His first mate had secured a new crew and it would only be days before he could set out for the open seas. After spending so much time in the war, he was eagerly anticipating the freedom his ship represented.

A shout distracted him from his thoughts. A ship was being sailed into the Liverpool harbor. She had battle scars by the score, yet she sailed proudly into the port. As the vessel turned into its slip, the name became visible to MacLeod. It was the Laconia II; Captain Frederick Wentworth must be aboard. With a broad smile, he stepped off of the plank onto solid ground and made his way over towards the docking ship.

It had been over two years, since the last time they had met. Napoleon's army had been ravaging the continent, and each fought to defeat the tyrant. Despite the happiness in their reunion, there hadn't been time to trade stories. Several hundred wounded soldiers had needed transportation back to England and Wentworth's ship had been used for that voyage. MacLeod had been the commanding officer, stationed in France, in charge of seeing that the soldiers made it to that vessel and home. Together they had completed their mission and saved the lives of those men.

MacLeod remembered back to the first time they had met. It was at a party where Captain Croft had been promoted to admiral. MacLeod had stood talking with his friend, the newly appointed Croft, when their conversation was interrupted. This left MacLeod free to survey the room as the Admiral accepted his congratulations. The Scot's gaze landed on Wentworth. He noticed how the Englishman was refusing the numerous advances of some pretty ladies. The Admiral must have followed his gaze because he then proceeded to tell the Scot of his concern for Wentworth. Croft hadn't known what ailed his brother-in-law since coming back from the seas, and he confessed to MacLeod that he had been unsuccessful in engaging Wentworth with even a conversation.

It wasn't often that a man, who had been to sea for an extended period of time, chose to drown himself in drink instead of a woman's body. This intrigued MacLeod, so he told the Admiral that he would talk with Wentworth, see if he could be of any help but he never did find out why his friend shunned the women at that time.

In their future meetings, he noted that the Captain didn't dissuade a lady's advances, but to the Scot's knowledge, Wentworth never engaged the women beyond flirtation. The Englishman never made any mention of that night when they first met, but the underlying sadness that the Scot had seen then, has been ever apparent. Maybe at this meeting, he would be able to extract the untold story.

MacLeod came even with Wentworth's ship. Sailors jostled him as he waited for permission to board the mighty vessel. It looked like it was going to take some time before he would be able to speak with Wentworth. Along the edge of the pier sat a large coil of rope. Trying to make himself comfortable upon it, MacLeod waited for Wentworth to finish his business.

The late afternoon sun beat down upon his face, as he let his thoughts return to France and the war. The country was hurt and bleeding and he didn't know if it would ever recover its previous glory. The Scots and French had a long history of friendship, and he was saddened by the mass destruction caused by the mad dictator. He knew that it was just a matter of time before he would be recalled back, but for now he had his ship to see to, some business to take care of, and now, a friend to drink with. He smiled, watching Captain Wentworth sign some papers and give orders to his men.

His mind once again turned to France. The war had cost him more than just blood and time. It had cost him Sarah. His beautiful Sarah. He pictured her long red hair and fiery eyes.

He longed for her to be standing in front of him, instead of, no, he wouldn't think of her anymore. He was out of France and ready to start a new life. She was married and lost to him forever. He was the one that had chosen to fight in the war, instead of staying with her, and now he had to live with that decision for the rest of his days. But it still hurt. More times than not, his heart ached with need for her.

A piercing whistle caught his attention. MacLeod glanced up. Wentworth was staring at him as he made his way to shore, stepping off the dock. MacLeod stood up from his uncomfortable seat, and waited for Wentworth to join him. After being waylaid several times, Wentworth finally stood before him. They greeted each other with a hearty handshake, and some jovial back slapping.

"How are you faring?" MacLeod asked his friend.

Wentworth gave a rueful shake to his head. "The war has almost destroyed my ship, but as long as she sails, I am a contented man. And yourself?"

"Just got in from France. I bought a decommissioned war ship. There she is," said MacLeod pointing to a ship about ten yards away. "She's been in dry dock for about two months, doing away with most of the damage she'd sustained. After my business here is completed, I am a free man. Wellington expects me some time in the next few months, but until then I can go where the wind blows. I escaped Napoleon with my life and my money. Now it's time to enjoy both."

"An excellent plan if ever I have heard one," agreed Captain Wentworth, taking off his hat. MacLeod saw him survey the crowded bay of war torn ships and landed sailors. The racket of loading and unloading of cargo filled the wharf.

Wentworth nodded. "Shall we find something to drink and reacquaint ourselves with the treasures that England has to offer?"

Wentworth and MacLeod gave each other a knowing look.

"Lula's Tavern." they said in unison.

The Captains broke out in shared laughter, shaking their heads as they left the docks and made their way towards the familiar ale house. The streets were crowded with sailors that had the same desire for drink and entertainment. Taverns and bawdy houses were starting to fill up as the sun descended over the horizon. The two captains hurried so as to obtain a table.

The sounds of the tavern's rowdy patrons engulfed the two figures as they entered the dimly lit building. The place smelled of beer, sweat and smoke--just the right atmosphere needed for the men to get down to the business of getting reacquainted and getting filthy drunk. They walked through the crowded room and took seats off in a far corner of the establishment.

"Ahhhh, It doesn't get any better than this," declared MacLeod, setting himself down onto the chair. Wentworth followed suit. A serving wench came over and placed two frothy tankards down in front of them.

MacLeod winked at her, "Thank ye lass."

MacLeod saw Wentworth look from him to the wench who was walking away. The stiff Englishman was probably thinking that he could never resist a lovely lass. While that was a reputation he enjoyed, it wasn't strictly true. There were times where things separated him from a pretty woman's arms. He thought fleetingly of Sarah and then abruptly stopped himself. This was the time to relax, not brood. His friend must have caught MacLeod's initial lascivious gaze, so the Scot decided to play with him.

"What?" asked MacLeod, watching Wentworth's complexion redden.

"It was nothing," returned Wentworth, giving his attention back to his drink.

"Well, let's have a toast then," suggested MacLeod, determined to remain light-hearted.

They both raised their glass.

"To fine English women," said the Scotsman, then winked at Wentworth as he turned his gaze back to the wench, "One of the finest treasures England has to offer."

Wentworth laughed at the echo of his words from earlier. "To fine English women," Wentworth repeated, then took a long draft of his beer.

Throughout the evening the captains talked of everything - from treasures gained, to different battles they fought in, to the comrades they had seen die. Each had stories to share that both sobered and livened up the evening.

"It was quite a bit of fun to alleviate the burden of money from Napoleon's pursers on the road to the port of Hauvre," recalled MacLeod, grinning wildly at Wentworth.

"Particularly when they got past *you*, and *tried* to sail past me," laughed Wentworth.

The men heartily agreed that the art of war could definitely be classified as a capital game.

"Or was that *gain*?" questioned Wentworth

"Is there a difference?" asked MacLeod as he took another swallow of his ale.

The captains both broke out in laughter. MacLeod slapped the table repeatedly as he let the laughter take control of him.

"I would guess not," answered Wentworth through his mirth.

As the night progressed, the sailors' tankards repeatedly clanked together as they made periodic toasts. The beers sloshed out of their glasses and soaked the already finely beer-stained table.

"To Napoleon's defeat!" toasted Wentworth.

"To the accumulation of wealth!" returned MacLeod.

"To the spending of it!"

"To the women who will vie for our favor!"

The glasses continued to meet each other across the wooden divide. At some point during their various salutes to good fortune, their tankards cracked and beer rushed out. With a dismayed look upon both their faces, MacLeod and Wentworth saw the amber liquid fall from their broken glasses and run out across the mahogany table.

MacLeod looked up at his friend with an anxious glance. He then let his glance evolve into a grin. Yelling across the still densely packed room, MacLeod called for another round.

The serving wench set the beer down upon the table and MacLeod grabbed her by the waist, pulling her onto his lap.

"Not now sir, perhaps later?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

MacLeod let her go reluctantly, and turned his attention to his new tankard and to his friend.

Some of the patrons started to leave. The noise level decreased, introducing a more intimate environment. With the continual replenishment of ale, in combination with an illusion of privacy, topics of a more personal nature began to be shared.

"Have you ever loved?" asked MacLeod leaning in close, his beer momentarily forgotten. 

Sarah had returned to his thoughts, and he was unable to banish her this time. The restraints he had worked so hard to maintain had been ripped away by the combination of drink and friendship.

"I mean really loved? Loved *so much *, that no matter how much time goes by, the pain still remains and haunts your soul?"

Wentworth gave a long look to MacLeod. He then answered, pausing between each word. "I have known love."

The Scot watched Wentworth's eyes narrow. Maybe the Englishman did suffer from a broken heart as he had imagined. He would gently pull the story from him.

A loud crash of dishes intruded upon their conversation. The sound was coupled with loud claps and drunken hoorays from all around the bar.

Their beer-ladened gazes cut through the smoky tavern, towards the disturbance. Would this distraction silence his friend? MacLeod was relieved when he started talking again.

"You know, I knew that the remembrances would assault me, they always do whenever I drink too much. I knew it would happen and yet here I am, downing each drink with the promise of another to follow."

MacLeod didn't want to move, afraid that he would brake the spell and end the confidences.

"I have known love, " he repeated, then suddenly the Scot saw his friend's eyes hardened as a grimace crept over his features.

He finished with his reply, "That *type* of love, particularly I have known."

MacLeod looked at him, shaking his head. He could see clearly the anguish that spread across his friend's features as he struggled, unsuccessfully, to clamp down upon it.

Silence descended upon them as Wentworth fought for control. Maybe if he told his own story, it would enable Wentworth to open up.

"My Sarah was a fiery woman," began MacLeod. "She said she had need of taming, and I felt I was best suited for the task." He sat back in his chair, taking another swallow of ale. He knew he spoke in a casual manner, but he caught Wentworth's penetrating look. Hopefully Wentworth saw beyond his relaxed facade, and recognized the pain within the words.

"I remember her long ringlets flying behind her as we raced our horses around the green." The tavern disappeared and he was galloping on the horse. "She'd turn her head and look behind to make sure I wasn't catching up. Spurring her horse faster and faster, she raced against the wind. Nothing daunted her. Sarah laughed at the limitations set upon her by family and friends. She actively disobeyed her father, and did whatever she pleased."

He was lost in his thoughts as the serving wench came back with another round. The sound of a flipped coin spinning atop the table pulled MacLeod's attention and turned the wench back to them. As she reached for the coin, she leaned into MacLeod and left a quick tantalizing kiss upon his lips, which succeeded in completely breaking him out of his absorbing recollections.

She then pulled away. MacLeod watched her walk back to the bar.

"I'd say she's taking more of a liking towards me." MacLeod grinned. He heard Wentworth answer with a token chuckle. They each took a draught of their fresh ales.

"I think that wench *thanked* the wrong man on purpose," Wentworth said, nodding his head towards the retreating figure. MacLeod snorted in response as they each took a draught of their fresh ales.

"Tell me. How did you separate?" Wentworth asked.

MacLeod knew he was being drawn back to the story, and he suspected that Wentworth was motivated by his own intruding thoughts. He let his grin fade as he embraced his own recent heartache and continued with his tale.

"How? The war had started and my friend Pierre had come to enlist my aid. He said experienced soldiers were desperately needed. I couldn't refuse him, abandon those that needed me. I urged her to return to England, but she refused to leave. As I rode away, she asked if I was coming back. I remember not wanting to give her assurances, for in war, there are no assurances. So I rode away without responding."

"Did you intend to return to her?"

"Oh yes, for I loved her well. She was all fire and passion. She made me feel alive, more alive than I had felt in years. Being with her was more intoxicating than the finest brandy. And then it was gone, replaced by death and hardships." He paused. "I know she loved me." His voiced cracked. "But she didn't wait for me."

"She married another?"

"Aye. But she thought I was dead. She saw them chop off my head."

"Then how do you explain your presence in front of me. Are you a ghost?"

"No." He laughed without mirth. The oppressive memories overcoming him which resulted in the draining of yet another tankard.

"Another, wench!" he called, raising his mug.

"I had been taken prisoner and thrown into the Bastille.

They intended me to lose my head under Madame Guillotine. That same friend, Pierre Bouchet, had other ideas. He visited me in my cell and knocked me senseless. Then taking my clothes and my identity, he lost *his* head under the blade."

"Your friend died for you?" Amazement filled his voice.

MacLeod nodded.

"My lovely Sarah saw my execution, but was too far away to see that it really wasna me. I couldna call out to her, I watched as she wept, unable to do anything. I stood behind the bars of the cell, seeing her anguish, feeling it myself, and yet powerless to change the course of events."

There was silence for a moment. The two men looked at each other,

MacLeod unable to go beyond the sight of Sarah screaming his name. Both started as another round was slammed in front of them.

Wentworth picked up his fresh mug. "Did you look for her after the war ended?"

"Aye. I went to her home. I traveled four days on horseback and it was an arduous journey. When I finally arrived at her home, I tied my horse and walked up through the back. The gardens were in full bloom and they reminded me so much of her."

"Was she there? Did you talk to her?"

"She was pruning roses. I stood beside a tree watching her snip the dead branches, lovingly stroking the petals. I remember feeling the ache in my heart filling with just the sight of her. God she was beautiful...then...then I noticed a little girl run up to her."

MacLeod turned to look at his friend. "She had a daughter. A beautiful child with her mother's face...and... a father standing to one side. I saw Sarah stand up and embrace him. My Sarah was married. I looked on the family and felt happy for her. You see, I canna give her children, so maybe she's better off with him."

"How do you know? Just because you haven't in the past…"

"I know," he responded in a defeated voice, and then continued. "I remember stepping back and returning to my horse. I rode north, heading for England. Of that trip, I remember little."

"So you didn't go to her, talk to her?"

"For what reason? I didn't want to ruin her happiness. She had...she has a family and a husband. I can't fault her for that. She saw me die. So now it's time to get on with my life."

"With your ship."

"Yes, I miss the open seas. I need to feel the rolling deck and the camaraderie of the men under my command. I desire the freedom it gives, coupled with a star to guide by."

"But it doesn't always work that way. I too thought the best way to forget a woman was aboard ship."

MacLeod looked at him. Wentworth looked frustrated as if he found it difficult to express what was in his heart.

MacLeod didn't prod, he just sat opposite him, waiting. He was good at it; he had been practicing it all his life. It came as natural to him as breathing.

"I....ah...," began Wentworth.

MacLeod saw the Englishman look down at the beer-stained and dirtied wood around his hands.

"I know of anguish," he whispered, almost too low to for MacLeod to hear over the din of the room."

"Anguish?"

"Yes, I...have loved desperately once," revealed Wentworth, leaning back.

"Did she die?"

"No, nooo, she didn't die," he assured, undoing the vest of his uniform, the gold buttons catching the dim light.

"What then, what happened?" questioned MacLeod.

Wentworth shuddered. MacLeod could see his hand shaking as it rested once more upon the table.

"She changed her mind," answered Wentworth. Then he took a deep breath and began the tale.

"I had gone to Kellynch Hall to ask her to be my bride. It was to be the beginning of my naval career and all I wanted was for her to be by my side, possibly even sailing with me once I had my own ship."

"Like Sophy does with your brother-in-law?"

"Exactly. A perfect union, my sister and Admiral Croft. And I desired the same, felt it was my right. I had no doubts that I would pass through the naval ranks quickly. The world and my future success were what I made of it. I had big plans."

Wentworth stopped to look at MacLeod intently. An air of gravity suffused him despite his body's intoxication and dilated eyes.

"And they were plans...not the dreams of most men. My course was set, my destination clear, or so I thought."

Wentworth's gaze hardened as he continued with his tale.

****

England 1806

Wentworth dismounted from his horse and cast his gaze upon the impressive visage of Kellynch Hall. Every time he came to see Anne, the magnificence of her familial estate was not lost on him. He hoped that one day he would be able to give her a home equal to the splendor of Kellynch Hall. It was his ambition.

And it was her right. She had agreed to marry him. They only needed to set a date and announce it in the Post. Today he would accomplish this last detail, and then he would count the days until the actual ceremony.

Handing the horse's reins to an awaiting attendant, Wentworth crossed the graveled courtyard, the stones crunching beneath his boots. He noted that the day was gray and cool, but it was of no matter to him because his heart was warm and filled with purpose.

His breath billowed out before him in translucent clouds as he made his way to the steps of Kellynch.

Upon his approach the doors swung open and Wentworth removed his riding gloves, stepping over the threshold. His eyes took but a moment as they adjusted from the almost blinding gray brightness of the outside, to the softer interior light of the foyer.

"May I take your coat, Sir?" asked the butler who stood before him.

Wentworth took off his riding coat and handed the garment and his gloves to the butler as he looked about the anteroom, trying to discern which door Anne might be waiting behind. "Thank you, Simmons."

"Miss Anne is in the sitting room, I'll take..."

"Yes, I know where it is," interrupted Wentworth. He walked down the hall some and turned to a pair of shut doors that stood to the right of him. Placing his hands against their cool metal latches, he paused.

He placed his forehead against the door, then taking a deep breath, he stood back, turned the handles and entered the room.

Wentworth's face fell some. Anne was not alone.

Two women rose from the divan to greet Wentworth.

"Mr. Wentworth, nice to see you again," said Lady Russell.

"And you, Lady Russell," answered Wentworth walking over to them. He clasped her upraised hand, kissing the top.

He then straightened and turned to Anne.

"Miss Elliot, I hope I am finding you well this afternoon?"

He clasped Anne's fingers within his own and brought her hand to his lips. Closing his eyes, he kissed her. He attempted to hold her satiny skin to his lips for a barely perceptible extension of time...an action that he always did. But he felt Anne pull her hand away. He opened his eyes to look at her but she had turned her gaze from him, looking beyond his shoulder. Wentworth studied her with barely veiled confusion.

"I hope you had a pleasant journey from town," asked Lady Russell, drawing Wentworth's attention back to her.

"I ...," Wentworth finally looked at the older woman, answering her soundly, "Yes, the storm will hold off I believe. It was not a bad day to ride."

"Good. Come... let us sit," ordered Lady Russell playing host in her young companion's home.

"Yes, certainly," agreed Wentworth selecting a seat across from the divan.

He sunk into the chair and looked once again at Anne. Still, she avoided his eyes.

"Tea? Mr. Wentworth?" asked Lady Russell as she poured a cup.

"Thank you." He answered, looking up at Lady Russell.

"And how is your brother in law, Captain Croft, and your sister, Mrs. Croft," asked Lady Russell, as she passed the offered cup to him.

"They are well. I received a letter from Sophy just the other day," explained Wentworth. "She and the Captain are in Gibraltar."

"Excellent. And how is your brother, Edward, faring? Is he happy with his curacy in Monkford?"

"Edward is in excellent health and yes, he is pleased with the curacy."

****

England 1814

"We continued on like this, exchanging pleasantries and inquiries, for what seemed like an agonizing length of time."

Wentworth turned his gaze on MacLeod. His hands gripped the edge of the worn table, his knuckles white, as he remembered.

"I was anxious to have Anne alone...to talk to her...her attitude had caused me no little bit of confusion, but then it occurred to me.

"She did not want to display our attachment openly in front of Lady Russell. I did not understand her reluctance, but accepted it. So, I anxiously awaited the time to have Anne to myself so that we could discuss the announcement of our impending union.

****

England 1806

Anne remained aloof. The three of them conversed for the better part of an hour before Lady Russell stood to take her leave.

"I really must be going."

Wentworth and Anne stood with her. Wentworth released a breath of his pent-up tension. He would finally have Anne alone.

"Good Afternoon Lady Russell. It was a pleasure."

Lady Russell locked gazes with him. She gave him a peculiar stare, then finally spoke.

"Mr. Wentworth. It was nice having seen you."

She then turned to Anne, "Anne, could you see me to the door?"

"Yes, Lady Russell."

Wentworth watched the two women leave the room. He let out another slow breath. For some reason his hands had become clammy and his feeling of security had slipped a few notches. He told himself he was being ridiculous...that Anne loved him and there was nothing to concern himself about. He walked over to the window to see Lady Russell step up, into her coach.

Absently, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at the before mentioned hands. As he watched her coach pull away, he heard the door to the room open again. For some strange reason, he had to force himself to turn from the window. A sense of foreboding seemed to grow strong within him as he watched the coach disappear down the lane.

"Frederick?" questioned Anne. The sound of her voice snapped him out of his dark musing and he walked over to her, his eyes dancing with barely suppressed emotions.

"Anne," he said, reaching for her. He thought he saw her hesitate, but dismissed the notion as her small hands slipped into his.

"I don't deny admitting that I have missed you while I was at the naval academy," said Wentworth smiling down into her face.

Anne pulled her hands out of his and resumed her seat on the divan. "When will you return to the seas?"

"Well," began Wentworth, taking a chair beside her. "Her Majesty's Navy seems anxious to see me upon the waves rather soon. My service begins at the end of the month. I sail with a Captain Radford as my first placement. He is known as a good man and I have no doubt that I shall be serving England well under him."

"That is good to know," whispered Anne. She looked down at her hands laying in her lap.

Wentworth watched her. The foreboding began to wash back over him, ever so slightly.

"Anne?"

He waited for her to look up at him. "Tell me, what is wrong. You have been acting so peculiar," he asked stopping her fidgeting hands with his own clasping fingers.

Anne abruptly stood up, pulling away from him. Walking over to a vase, she began to play with the flowers captured inside it.

Wentworth stood too. "At first I thought perhaps it was the presence of Lady Russell that caused you to act col...differently," he amended, "Now she has left and yet still you avoid looking at me...I don't understand."

"Mr. Wentworth, I assure you Lady Russell has not influenced my behavior," answered Anne, looking everywhere except at him.

"Mr. Wentworth?" he asked, his voice laughing in nervous disbelief. This day was nothing as he had imagined it would be, and hurt and confusion laced his question.

"I thought that we - Anne, what is this all about?"

Anne finally gazed fully at him. He could see some sort of struggle play over her face. He felt the room suddenly become filled with an oppressing tension and Wentworth's mouth went dry.

Her eyes were piercing, as they finally looked into his own.

"Why don't you tell me," said Anne, turning away from him to take up his earlier position by the window. His breath came out in shallow gasps, as her eyes ripped away from him.

"I don't understand," said Wentworth shaking his head back and forth, trying to clear his thoughts- trying to find a logical reason for her actions. "Did you not say that after I became commissioned that I should come back and we could discuss our future?"

This was not the Anne he knew, the one who would walk with him for hours and laugh with him in the gardens. Love him as he loved her, only waiting for the right time to offer a promise for a shared life.

She braced her shoulders and turned towards him once more. Her eyes were cool and composed, but they would not meet his.

He was now certain that the distant manner that she displayed for him was not a result of Lady Russell's presence, for she was gone and still Anne suffered him with impersonal tones and avoiding eyes. His heart spiked with dread.

"But you are to leave soon. You are to join the navy and go to sea."

"That is true. But I thought that you... that I... I came here today..."

"Yes?" asked Anne, her voice hard, her eyes still adverted.

He looked at her face. He swore it did not match the manner of speech that came from her mouth. He noticed that her eyes were unusually bright and that her lips trembled.

"I came here today," Wentworth began again, his mouth remaining dry. He tried to dampen his palette by swallowing, but it was to no avail. He felt his heart being squeezed with every word he uttered, but he continued on.

"I came here today to ask you when we could publicly announce that you are to be my wife...my love...my companion."

She looked at him again. He saw tears break free of her eyes, sliding down the sides of her face. Within the tears, he swore he saw his desired answer there, the answer that had been there for months.

She did not reply but merely looked at him. He heard a shuddering breath leave her.

Wentworth closed the distance between them, placing his hands upon her arms. He stared into her face...waiting...hoping, that he mistook her demeanor.

She closed her eyes upon the answer he sought- the lids forcing tears onto her lowered lashes. Slowly she opened them again. What he saw made the dread that had haunted him since Lady Russell left Kellynch, whip through him full blown.

His voice caught in his throat, his eyes narrowed. He desperately wanted to wipe away the answer he saw there. The answer that shouldn't have been there. He shook his head in confused denial, then stopped. His backbone straightened and he released her.

He needed to hear it, had to hear it.

"Anne?" he choked out, his heart constricting.

"Fredrick... there will be no announcement," answered Anne. "I cannot marry you." She backed away from him, towards the door.

Wentworth stood there stunned, unable to speak. He had been telling himself that it was nothing...his imagination....that she was just...he didn't know.

He tried to push away her answer. He stood there frozen within himself, trapped in his own web of anguish. He could not believe what he heard and yet...

He slowly raised his crest fallen head to look at her retreating figure. The answer that he tried to push away - slapped him in the face as, instead of falling into his arms... it... she, stepped out of reach.

"Lady Russell, "Wentworth growled, as if he were inciting the name of the devil himself. "She is the one who has told you to refuse me." It was a statement, not a question. He couldn't fool himself any longer. He should never have dismissed the warnings. If he were honest with himself, he knew something wasn't right the minute she wasn't there to greet him at the door.

Anne remained silent. His eyes burned into her.

"Answer me," Wentworth ordered.

"No," Anne whispered.

"No, she didn't persuade you or no you won't answer me?" he questioned, advancing towards her.

He watched her retreat towards the door.

Anne tried to speak but Wentworth's words cut her off.

"You would throw away everything we are? Where is your character?" he asked. An acrid taste rose in his mouth as he began to feel physically sick. He saw again, that she tried to defend herself, but he wouldn't let her. He wouldn't see the tears that tracked down her face.

"You do not love me after all? The countless times we have been together, talking, feeling, planning? This was just a game for you?"

Wentworth fired the questions at Anne, aiming to destroy her heart as surely as she was destroying his. How could she have used him so ill? He could not endure this treatment. Wentworth saw her flinch as each word hit her. She seemed to shrink before his very eyes. He didn't care.

"It is none of those reasons is it? The answer is so simple, so obvious." Wentworth said taking a step towards her. "You are weak."

"I... " began Anne but Wentworth spoke over her again.

"No, I do not want to hear your reasons, I want nothing from you."

Wentworth's eyes hardened, his pride sheathed him as he stood there looking at her. As he wanted nothing more from her, he betrayed nothing more... no emotion. He saw her back away a little faster...he knew it was for fear of him. The wrath that had been so openly displayed upon his face, left, leaving nothing but a hard visage. He knew that she expected him to ask more questions, but that was an expectation that would not be fulfilled. No more questions would leave his mouth.

He would not beg for reasons. He could not demean or expose himself while she scrambled to tell falsehoods in a vain attempt to placate him. And he refused to believe that all this time he had imagined her reciprocated feelings - Lady Russell's influence was at work here.

Wentworth remembered how Lady Russell had looked at him upon quitting the sitting room. He now remembered it as a look of triumphant. Damn Anne for listening to the widow.

He couldn't think anymore. Wave upon wave of heated anger, confusion, and pain flowed through his veins, but the countenance he showed to her remained one of granite.

She had stopped against the door. Wentworth walked towards her, his boots ringing solidly against the marble floor. It was the only sound that filled the room. He looked at her, through her, staring beyond the confinement of the room. With an effort, he stopped in front of her.

"I will trouble you no longer. Good day," said Wentworth. He waited as Anne stepped back from the door to allow his passage. He reached for the handle but paused, recognizing the devastation that had settled over him. It broke through the granite veneer, escaping across his features but the door was the only witness to it.

He stood rigid as he took the needed second to compose himself. The metal latch felt warm to the touch, for her hands had rested upon it.

He did not look back at her again.

Wentworth walked out of the room and closed the door to his dreams, to his plans for the perfect future with the woman he loved -- the woman who was to weak to fight for their future. He went through the motions of slipping on his gloves and donning his coat. He was trapped within a cavernous tunnel of despair as he left the oppressive walls of Kellynch Hall for the last time.

****

England 1814

"And so I mounted my horse and rode to town, never looking back." Wentworth finished his tale and drained the rest off his drink in one swallow.

"And in the intervening years, you have not thought of her?"

"I may have."

MacLeod looked at his friend in sympathy. There was no doubt that the man suffered greatly. But then his eyes hardened.

"So you gave up?" MacLeod asked harshly.

He saw Wentworth start at the accusation.

"There was nothing to give up. Her attachment for me was not as strong as mine for her. She could not hold her heart out against what others would have her do." Wentworth sneered.

"You wouldn't even let her speak, to explain?"

"It didn't matter to me. The...the burning shame and disappointment was too vivid. At that moment, the need to leave before I disgraced myself any further, was uppermost on my mind. I could not even face my brother, Edward, for he expected to me return with the news of my impending nuptials. My brother, who had opened his house for me, I...I could not face even him. So instead, I left for the sea earlier than intended."

"Wasn't it convenient that Napoleon gave you the opportunity you sought." MacLeod mocked.

"Very."

The Scot noticed that Wentworth totally missed the irony in his last comment. "You've profited nicely from it too."

"I admit I obtained advancement quicker than I had a right too."

"Did you take foolish risks to do so?"

"I did not," Wentworth replied indignantly.

MacLeod gave a derisive laugh. "It's a well known fact that those with a broken heart care not for life."

"The ship and my fellow crew members were not, nor have they ever been put into needless danger. I did not risk their lives because I cared not for my own. And when I began to captain my own ships, the same applied."

"So now the war is almost over, you are rich, and still unattached. Do you go out to search for a wife?" asked MacLeod.

"My sister is imploring me to do so."

"Does she have anyone in mind?"

"I don't believe so, though she believes I would marry any pleasing young woman who comes my way. In fact, I have just received a letter from her," Wentworth informed." Admiral Croft and my sister - they have just moved into an estate."

"So you are to visit her?"

"Yes, but I dread the stay?"

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeated.

MacLeod saw him take in a deep breath.

"They are occupying Kellynch Hall, the Elliots have let it to them for the season. I'd planned never to enter its walls again"

"Splendid, excellent." MacLeod swung his glass in enthusiasm, which sprayed ale over the table and onto his friend's white shirt. He saw that Wentworth paid no notice, as he gave the Scot a hard stare.

"Excellent?!?"

MacLeod let him wait before he explained, he knew Wentworth didn't understand his enthusiasm, but he soon would. "Since your sister is already expecting your visit, then all it would take is an occasional question and to listen to those conversing around you. They will surely gossip about who let their house to them."

"I do not think a visit, to *her* house, would do me any good. I am much better suited to visiting friends then well-meaning relatives.

Relatives, the word made MacLeod smile as he thought of Duncan. "Families. We are always cursed with dealing with their good intentions. My own kinsman is always..."

"Wait. You have family? You have never mentioned him before."

"He is a thorn in my side and the brightest star in the heavens." MacLeod drained his tankard, and yet another was placed before him immediately. He eyed the wench and grinned at her again.

"You describe my sister exactly." Wentworth interjected. The Scot turned his attention back to his friend.

MacLeod carried on with his pointed questions.

"Has she met your Anne?"

"I don't believe so."

MacLeod saw that Wentworth was wallowing in his pity. The Scot wasn't surprised when the Englishman failed to take umbrage at his use of "your".

"And you know nothing of what has happened to the woman since she refused you?"

"I do not!" Wentworth was emphatic.

"What if she is still unattached?"

"And if she is?"

"You could ask her again."

Wentworth looked appalled. "Never!"

MacLeod's face darkened. He stared at Wentworth. "Never!?!"

MacLeod was never much for manipulation, yet here sat a man who had a chance at happiness, a chance to end the misery, the 'anguish' of a lost love. If not at least to reclaim it, put it to bed forever. It was a possibility that the Scot would never have. MacLeod would be damned if he allowed Wentworth, or any man to walk away from that chance. Life was just too short for these mortals to waste on pride.

MacLeod's eyes hardened. His voice raised. "Wentworth, I can not pretend to know her motivation, or lack thereof, but I do know you. I know that you are not over her. How can you sit there and plan to do nothing...to not even find out! Here is your opportunity! Or is that sad little story you told me just that, a *story*!?!"

"No!"

"Okay then, here you are, still pining for her. Your heart still belongs to her even after all these years. This lass, whom you cannot release from yer soul, *rides*, *walks* and *sails* with you every day of your life. And you will not even take a chance...not even to check out her circumstances." MacLeod looked hard at Wentworth, " I have seen many things in my life."

MacLeod paused, memories of his own first love came flooding back to him. It was time that had taken away his bonny Heather as she aged and he did not. But time matured more than just the body, it matured the heart.

He knew that the love between his bonny lass and he had only strengthened as the years flew by. Perhaps time had deepened, strengthened Anne's love for Wentworth. He hoped so, for his friend's sake.

"One of the things I have seen in my life is the effects of time. Anne was young. She may not have been strong enough to go against another's influence then..., but perhaps today it is a different story," MacLeod's voice became aggressive," You must find out, you must know."

MacLeod pushed his chair back as he lunged in feigned drunkenness. His words burned with the fire of truth, as he let out his impassioned beliefs.

"What I would not give to have one chance...just one chance to have my Sarah back again. And here you are, preferring to wallow in your own misery rather then do something about it! Well Damn you , Wentworth...Damn You!"

"My Anne is not your Sarah," Wentworth yelled back. The Scot watched Wentworth get shakily to his feet, the alcohol having a greater effect on his lesser constitution.

The drunken patrons of the tavern barely turned a head towards the commotion of the two captains.

"No that's right, I know my Sarah is married...I know she is gone from me forever and I live with that fact every day...that is the fact that rides with *me*, that walks with *me*, and sails with *me*. That is a certainty that I live with; you don't have that certainty. You know nothing. Get off your ass Wentworth, find out....end her ghostly visitations to your soul once and for all."

Wentworth crashed back into the seat of his chair. MacLeod followed suit. He continued on in a calmer, subdued voice this time.

"What if she suffers as you? A love as you have described is near impossible to forget, or more importantly, impossible to be "persuaded" away. What if, in fact, she still has an affection for you?"

" I...I don't know...I do not think she would change her mind. She was persuaded to refuse me once. If she were free, the same could happen again."

"Then don't ask her, make her ask you."

"Ask me?" the Englishman looked incredulous.

"Maybe not in words, but in deeds. Go to her, and insinuate yourself in her circle of friends. There she can't help but notice you. See what her circumstances are now."

"It is a preposterous idea."

"I think it's quite elegant myself. You are a Captain in the British Navy, what circle would refuse you? Court some other girl if you have to, but see this Anne again."

"I can not."

"How long have we known each other?"

"About six years."

"And how long has it been since you proposed?"

"Eight."

MacLeod let the veil of drunkenness slip from his speech. He looked earnestly at Wentworth.

"You have not forgotten anything about her, not anything? Am I right? Do you remember the color of her eyes? The texture of her hair? The scent of her body as it brushes gently past you?"

He saw Wentworth color.

"I see you have not. You have not forgotten in eight years, what makes you think you will, in ten more or fifty more? You have lost your heart and never will it return. Don't condemn yourself to a lifetime of regrets. You will not live forever...Time. It passes very quickly and soon you will be an old man - alone and lonely."

MacLeod looked into himself, remembering, again, back to a time, to a woman that always remained within his thoughts. He continued. "I cannot tell you how many women I have loved and lost, yet my first, my bonny Heather, was the most precious. And I have no regrets of our love, except her death."

He let some of his past out, conscious of what he chose to reveal. He wanted to drive home his point and he was not surprised when he felt tears rail from his eyes as he remembered Heather, Sarah and others he had lost.

"I feel the time pass so quickly and there is nothing I can do. Those that I love die and never can I get them back. But when they leave, it's not because of foolish pride. Sarah married another thinking I was dead. Heather died, and here I am alone, drinking beer in a disreputable tavern. Neither were my doing, yet I would trade anything to get them back."

MacLeod captured Wentworth's gaze and stared at him hard. "Love is a gift...the feeling and the giving. Do not squander yours. Do not leave it bottled up inside, withering your soul and your person. While you are unsure of her circumstances, there is hope. Go back, maybe she grieves for her loss of you as much as you long for her."

With that last statement, Connor MacLeod let his face fall atop the table, doing so more to hide the tears he couldn't seem to stem. His head faced away from Wentworth and he knew he appeared to have passed out. That was fine with him, the morning was approaching, and he strangely felt that the table was actually comfortable.

"No," whispered Wentworth. MacLeod heard him in the now quieted tavern.

The sound of the empty ring of Wentworth's mug hitting the table sounded in MacLeod's ears. Not very long after he smelled the wench's lilac perfume and heard her placing two fresh tankards upon the table.

The scent faded as she walked away.

"Could you be right my friend?" questioned Wentworth to the seemingly unconscious MacLeod, "More importantly, can I live the remainder of my days not knowing?"

MacLeod opened his eyes, but made no other move. The morning's breaking light played across his face, dulling the lantern that hung above the table. He could hear the awaking sounds of fishermen starting their boats and the swearing of men as they staggered on the streets.

"Are you right?" Wentworth repeated.

MacLeod felt the weight shift on the table as the sound of cloth scraped against the wooden surface.

"You, a man who is always drifting from port to port, woman to woman. But then there is your Sarah. Such a well of experienced pain within you."

He heard the tankard bang against the table, and let himself move to a more comfortable position. His head was starting to pound.

"I do hear what you have said. You are right. I should not waste my life on what ifs. I need to find out."

MacLeod grinned.

"I will go see my sister. Eight years is a long time for a county to forget about me. I will cloak myself in indifference. I will see how Anne, ah...Anne, I will see how she responds towards me."

MacLeod could hear the elation filling Wentworth's voice with his new decision.

Wentworth shook MacLeod's shoulder. "Wake up MacLeod. Let us return to our ships."

MacLeod staged a drunken moan, then raised his head. He could barely contain the mirth that rocketed through his body as he looked upon his friend's beaming face.

MacLeod bit his inner lips, he could taste blood, but he didn't dare unclench his jaw. The fear of his laughter overcoming him was too great. Nodding his head, MacLeod allowed a staggering Wentworth to lead him back towards the docks and to their own respective beds.

The End


End file.
